The Daughter of Lepidus
by VampX13
Summary: Ameli recounts her life story, explaining what her family and relationship with first Prince of Rome, Augustus, was like and why history will truly never to acknowledge her existence.


It was humid and sticky on this particular afternoon as the sun's rays knocked the people on Vicus Iugarius back with their warmth. I looked down the street at the exhausted people shuffling through, back and forth. It seemed to be one of those days when every Roman citizen was out. Therefore what happened next seemed almost too improbable to be true or I suppose who happened next.

Like an angel walking amidst the damned, Gaius Octavius burst forward from the crowd. His pupils flickered this way and that, blue iris' following dazed afterwards: his eyes rolled from side to side, sometimes quickly darting upward before setting themselves up on the ground and then back up to disappear behind his head. He looked perfectly insane, his robes all out of order, his golden hair a mess as he stumbled confused into people who shoved him back with an air of authority did not possess. This of course only increased his madness causing him to stumble backward and catch himself, before he lost his footing in its entirety.

I felt my brow furrow in concern and I pushed and shoved amongst the crowd and the heat until I made my way to him. I felt my face arguing with itself. My eyes were worried for him but my mouth formed a smile, happy to see him after our months apart. "Octavius!"

He didn't seem to acknowledge me a first. His head turned this way and that neck twisting at awkward angles as though trying to follow everyone's voice in order to pick mine out. Finally after a moment he found me and looked down, his eyes catching mine and lighting up with familiarity. A stream of tears flowed down his face as he smiled at me.

"What is it?" I heard myself ask instinctively from all those long ago nights we had spent together speaking of our burdens under the stars, away from the rest of humanity.

"He's dead," I heard him whisper. He looked to me for recognition but I had no idea of whom he spoke. So he kept whispering it, "He's dead. He's dead. He's dead..." on and on, searching for some confirmation.

"Who?" I was left to ask, "Who is dead? What's happened?" But he didn't answer, just keep murmuring under his breath repeating those words enjoying relieving the horror.

A few people were beginning to stop and stare, rather than continue on in the feverish heat. He had to get out of here and quickly before his new-found reputation was lost amongst the crowd. After all, one could never know what Caesar would do should he guess he had been backstabbed.

I made a rash decision, which ended up being the most important one of my life. I slipped my hand in his and pulled him off down the street with me. He stumbled after me, the murmuring continuing, getting a fraction louder with every repeat. A few times he nearly fell, face forward, but I always caught him and propped him back up. As his voice grew the people we shuffled and stumbled past seemed to get increasingly louder as well. I couldn't catch any of what they were saying but this was a detail I would dismiss for now and later find more relevant.

Finally we reached the inn and I quickly took the little money I had for _victus venalicium _(groceries) and handed it to the inn keeper. I ordered some water and bread to be brought to us. The Inn Keeper nodded though I doubt he was paying attention, what with the commotion Octavius was causing.

The Inn Keeper watched him as he nearly yelled across the room, "He's dead! He's dead!"

I muttered a quick "shh," though whether it was in response to Octavius' shouting or the Inn Keeper's thoughts, I am not quite sure. Either way it seemed enough to satisfy the Inn Keeper on the matter as he quietly began to usher us into a small room with a bed, table and chair. The door was wooden and relatively thin but covered most of the space left for it.

The room lied to me effectively for, as the Inn Keeper left, I noticed it's particularly plain looking walls and floor. I can't quite remember the look of it now but I know, to me, it seemed draped in gray gauze: hazy and unimportant. It could play that role successfully and effortlessly, yet; instead, it would choose to be important. It would choose to be spectacular and magnificent. It's destiny to be so would unravel with the passing of time.

And, while it still remained unimportant, I pulled Octavius down onto the bed. He was, by now, screaming, yelling, cursing the Gods: "HE'S DEAD! HE'S DEAD!"

I looked at him for a moment unsure of what my next move should be. And then, instinctively, my arms stretched out and I dropped down beside him. My arms reached around and enveloped him in a motherly embrace. He cried and shouted against my shoulder, awkwardly, for what felt like the rest of the hot afternoon.

Gradually, his sobbing came to a slow and his emotions said their farewell, leaving only stains of their tears on my clothes. I felt his face turn into that sensitive spot, where neck and shoulder meet, and I shuddered. I felt him breathing, heavily, against me. He took my hand, pulled it up to his chest and held still for a minute. I listened to my pulse, loud in my ears, and waited for him to move. My eyes stared straight ahead but my mind never left him.

Slowly, very slowly, he began to inch backward as my arms started to achieve calm. He pulled back until all that connected us was our hands, now placed in between us on our knees, which also touched lightly. It was at this comfortable distance that his eyes broke away from mine and he began to speak, in a carefully measured tone, "Caesar," he said, "Caesar is dead."

I didn't move, unable to think: stunned. I must have just made a little gasp though, as I did feel his grip tighten around my hand. I couldn't believe that a man like Caesar, one so important, could die. I had always thought of him as Caesar, the Immortal. To even think that death could touch him seemed unfathomable, to me.

"I saw it – I saw him. What happened..." Octavius began, attempting to confide, as he looked off as if the very thing of which he spoke were happening before him now.

"You couldn't of. I thought you were in--"

He looked at me, startling me and causing me to cut myself off. "I was but I was called back home."

He didn't look at me but continued to tell the story, "Antony had run in and told my mother what happened. I was obviously sent for and when I arrived all 'mother dearest' told me was, 'Caesar is dead. Don't look at me like that. We must go with Antony.'" His impression of his mother was flawless. I had met the woman before and she sounded as he had re-enacted: blunt, maintaining the air of false motherhood and an edge of cruelty.

"I, of course, hardly agreed, 'What would the people think? If Caesar is dead... Which he ... cannot be... We must remain united.'

"I demanded to know what Antony had seen. Upon hearing this Antony laughed at me, mockingly." Octavius flinched slightly and I felt his hand's grip on mine tighten.

I placed my thumb over his fingers, rubbing back and forth, soothingly over his knuckles.

"He laughed, as he got two of the slaves to help him into some kind of armor, and told me it was not a story for a boy to hear.

"Yet he contradicted himself and digressed, 'I was waiting outside the Senate to see your "Uncle". They wouldn't let me in. We were arguing. Decidedly, I pushed by the guards, running in. And there -right on the senate floor- was an army of them,' he claimed with passion and fury in voice. If there's anything good to say about Antony, it's that he was loyal to Caesar and would follow him to Hades and back.

"Then he told me," Octavius turned now, leaning in toward me. His grip on my hand was so tight; I thought he might break it. "He told me that this "army", members of the Senate, all pounced onto Caesar and they each had a dagger unsheathed, which they must have hidden beneath their togas.

"'_Irrumators_!' Antony cursed them, 'Greedy, bloody Pompey's! That's what they were upset about: Caesar being in power. Ridiculous! I told him though, did I? And he thought they were his friends!

"So they all lunge in toward him, striking him in the neck, side back. Brutus, whom he thought one of his closest friends, slashed him, right across the face.'" I heard myself gasp involuntarily, again, from the horrific image of it all. I knew Brutus or I thought I had...

"'He fell at the foot of Pompey's statue. Appropriately, they probably thought,' I heard Antony add under his breath as though snarling it. 'Again and again they stabbed him until royal blood pooled out around him. They seemed satisfied and horrified at this and say there, drinking it up, covered in it from head to foot. It was then that I came out of the shadows-'

"And I interrupted him there, demanding to know why he hadn't tried to stop them whilst the hideous crime was being committed right before his own two eyes.

"His reply was, 'Would you have?'

"'I wasn't there so your question is irrelevant. You could've stopped them. You could've tried.' He went to strike me. I avoided the swat of his hand. He merely laughed once more, urging my mother to hurry up."

Octavius paused a moment, gathering his thoughts. He moved back allowing himself to relax, loosening my hand from his iron-tight grip. After a moment of staring off, gathering his thoughts, he turned to me: "Shall I-?"

"Don't ask," I interrupted, lightly.

He gave me a small smile and a nod of his head, "Right. I always forget; I don't need to ask."

I smiled back allowing my thumb to brush, gently, once more, over his knuckles.

And his smile began to fade as he dived back into the story, "Of course, I didn't plan on leaving Rome or any part of my family leaving it, either. I had to convince them to stay... without the brute force of a wallop." He took a pause once more as if he were forming the plan right now.

I was a little unsure of if he'd seen Caesar die but far from interrupting him.

"I decided to demand that we get Calpurnia before leaving. She was family and would surely be assassinated by the Senate, if left behind.

"I left the fact out that it was also a good example for the plebs: family sticking together through thick and thin. My family, as you know, is too preoccupied with themselves to care about the rest of the world.

"Antony agreed to take Calpurnia with us and we headed off for her. We found her at home, mourning over Caesar's death, trying all sorts of things to revive him from his immortal slumber. The body lay there before her, in front of us all." He flinched again and I gave his hand a supportive squeeze.

"When I saw it then, that was when I first knew – first believed, rather, that Caesar was, actually, dead." I could see him shrink back. His expression turned cold. His body was rigid as if he were the dead one, as if he were Caesar.

I shuffled closer to him in an attempt at comforting.

"His eyes were shut. He was lying on a slab of cold, ornate marble. He almost looked like a statue. He would've looked like a statue, if it weren't for the wounds, across, up, and down his body, that interrupted its peace. It was hard to believe that someone as passive in looks now, had once our Caesar. The life was drained out of him; he was only the former shell of Caesar. I'd really believed he was immortal. It's stupid, I know," he said, studying my reaction.

"No," I replied, "and he was immortal. His story will live on forever. He was a great ruler."

"He left it all to me. I was to take his place," Octavius replied, looking down at our hands now.

"What?"

"That's why we didn't go. Mother wouldn't leave when it had all been left to me. I am made Gaius Julius Caesar Octavianus by Caesar's will... Antony is staying too. I assume he has some plot to get rid of them all, all those that took part in my Uncle's murder. We discussed it and we plan on having an election. Antony is speaking with the... traitors now," he said continuing to stare at our hands.

"What do you mean?" I questioned, somewhat lost.

"It's all according to law and such. I've done my research."

"Gaius, you aren't listening to me," I stated, "I want to know which laws you speak of, how it all works."

"No, I would bore you," he said, shyly. He took up his other hand and stroked my cheek with it.

"You wouldn't," I persisted, blindly as he leant in toward me and kissed me.

It was very strange and very forced. At first it felt like we were young again; when little children show their love for one another openly. It evolved though into something else or attempted to. He opened his mouth, making everything incredibly messy and I attempted to keep up with him and follow suit, quite unsure of what we were doing but not really caring to cut him off. Eventually he pulled back and said quietly, "I'd always wondered what that was like."

"Kissing?" I asked.

"Kissing you," he replied, "Antony seems to care about my mother. I know I care about you so I was just wondering what it felt like."

"What it felt like to be like Antony?" I asked, a bit disgusted wiping my mouth with the back of hand.

"What it felt like -- what it feels like -- to kiss someone you care about," he replied, "The last thing I want to do is be anything close to Antony."

"And?" I asked but Gaius only looked at me, dazed. He had a somewhat dopey look on his face. I released his hand and to place mine up on his cheek, "How did it feel?" I giggled before laying back, allowing my _palla_ to slide down and off my shoulders.

"Beautiful. You're beautiful," he stated.

"Stop it, will you pay attention?"

"I'm trying to." His fingers reached out and brushed my wrist, pushing my _palla_ from my arm, and dancing up to my shoulder. "If I do pay attention though, I might do something rash. It's best for me to just analyze."

"You can't spend your whole life analyzing, Gaius."

"I can't spend my whole life feeling, either, Ameli. Someone has to stop and consider consequences... weigh actions."

I watched his hand slide off my shoulder and his arm come down to brace his body and hold it up so that he lay out beside me, his eyes looking down at my face, my lips. His mouth came down onto my neck and kissed it there, softly. I giggled in response.

"How does that feel?" he inquired.

"You're analyzing," I commented.

He stopped his ministrations and looked up at me for a moment.

I smiled, "It feels fine. It feels nice."

"Good," he responded.

Then he moved over and kissed me again. This time it was nicer, not as messy. He had obviously done enough analysis. When he pulled back this time it was to say, with a rather grim expression on his face, "I'm going to rape you if I stay here."

I thought on this for a moment, startled. I gently pushed him off of me and sat up. I sat there for a moment, allowing him to wrap his arms around me and pull me back onto his lap. "You should choose your words more carefully." I could feel his erection on my back, through the cloth of his toga. "It isn't rape if you have my consent."

He was dressed like a proper little boy. The one he used to be. I felt his arms to wrapped around me and was waiting for him to do something. His arms stayed put, his body stiff as stone. I closed my eyes and took in a deep breath. It smelt of sweat, heat, cac, sex and wine in this inn. It made me feel a little nauseous. I turned my head toward him, my cheek met the cloth of his toga and I took in a deep breath. He smelt clean of oil and freshly washed cloth. It made me feel light-headed dizzy.

He was shaking slightly. I smiled and opened my eyes, hoping to see him nervously smiling back. We'd been here, metaphorically: we'd done this before, held each other but it had never been this intimate and my Gaius would not smile back. "Gaius? Octavius?" I questioned as he continued to stare coldly at me. There was a phantom light in his eyes. They weren't as sharp as I'd remembered them. And I thought, he's changed. He's really changed. For the better, for the worse?

And he kissed me, again, on the mouth, on the neck, following down. And suddenly we were laying and his hands invaded my _stola_, my _tunica intima_, groping, attempting to feel. My brow furrowed and I closed my eyes. I heard murmuring and recognized my voice, chanting, "stop," over and over. But I wasn't sure... if I wanted him to stop. Not entirely, not really... And his toga was being removed he was pushing the cloth from his lightly, tanned flesh. He was pushing me back: All at once, it seemed. And my eyes fluttered and I watched. Realizing it wasn't all him. It was partly me. I was pulling off his clothes as he tugged at mine. And our eyes met and he kissed me again, following down once more: my neck, my breasts, adorning each nipple.

He kept kissing and kissing… to my stomach and thighs. I was shuddering now, violently, and he was still. No more shaking, a sharp determined look in his eye. As if he knew what he were doing. And I thought maybe he does. And I knew this was wrong. I knew that if we were caught, if someone found out, if someone knew: if my father knew. A spark of worry fluttered around my heart, pulling me far from his passion. I attempted to feel around, half sitting up looking for my clothes. I was shouting it now: "STOP, HELP! Leave me be. Stop!" And he grabbed my thighs, pressing hard and pulled me closer. His eyes bore into my belly, staring at my body and not at me. "Octavius, no, stop." I pleaded. I felt myself tearing up.

He glanced at me and glanced down, shaking his head from side to side as though some wrongful spirit has possessed him. I grabbed at his hands attempted to pull them away. I sat up and beat at his chest with my fist, attempting to shake him, crying and he shoved back. Pushing me down. Pulling himself up. Readying himself. I continued to sob and moan. I stared into his eyes which looked cruel and hard now, so changed, so different. "Stranger," I whispered, replying to those eyes, that stare. "Stranger, monster!" I called. "Bastard! Bastard! Woman! Petty excuse for a—" He slapped me. Hard. Across the face. And for a moment, my mind went blank and the next it was filled with pain as he tore through me, ripping through me. Holding me down. He kept it up: pounding in and sliding back out, as I cried. I could feel sticky, warm blood between my legs, feel it staining the sheets, my thighs.

I couldn't bare to look at him as I cried, my face staring at the wall: blank. And it seemed to calm me that wall. It was a plain color and I felt myself stiffen. I felt myself melting away and he continued on and finally died, burst forth within me and collapsed onto my breast, panting. My tears dried up, my face to relaxed. I knew there was pain but I was reluctant to feel it. I continued to stare at the wall and allow the pain to hide behind it. As long I kept staring, nothing could touch me. "The wine and bread," I said quietly, in a voice that was detached, not my own.

He panted in reply and I felt his own warm tears on my breast, listened to those silent sobs.

"It never came."

He continued to cry there and I lifted my hand to stroke his hair, automatically, mechanically, babying him despite the hatred that was rooted there in my breast.

And we lay. Together, him on top of me. Our lower haves stained with blood. Our faces mingled with one another's tears. And I wanted to blame him for this shame. For this hatred. But I knew he shared it to and that we were prisoners together and this hatred for one another, for our family, our friends, the world would stay buried. Hidden behind this wall, hidden in this anonymous room, covered in this blood that seeped from that cut he'd made, drenched in our tears: locked away by our love.

I pulled the sheet around me and continued to watch him with curious eyes, following his every move, tracing it, remembering it. I felt that pain throbbing in me and I said, loudly and clearly, "My Gaius, I love you."

He gave a guilty look. His eyes shifted around the room, at the sheets. His face had returned to the melancholy I'd found it in. He was ashamed, I knew. And so he should be, I thought. But I did love him. Nonetheless, I loved him. I waited for him to blunder and apology, explain how this was a mistake, perhaps whisper a foolish secret in my ear as though we were that pair of childhood friends again. Kiss my cheek and call me Ameli. But he did nothing of the kind. He looked at me, with those changed eyes and said three words:

"Call me Ceasar."


End file.
